


Teeth Sinking Into Heart

by osaki_nana_707



Category: Mysterious Skin (2005)
Genre: Death References, M/M, Molestation, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con References, References to Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osaki_nana_707/pseuds/osaki_nana_707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can't see how beautiful he is from the reflection in the mirror. I'm too caught up in seeing just how ugly I am. I'm tired and old and ugly." Neil's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teeth Sinking Into Heart

He's young… maybe sixteen, seventeen. He's absolutely fucking beautiful too, with soft, pouty lips, sandy brown hair, and eyes the color of honey… and he's nervous, back plastered up against the wall of the hustler bar and Adam's apple bobbing as he tries to look older, sexier, and less inexperienced.

I remember those days. I remember standing in line in my best clothes, trying to win over the highest bidder. I had never been nervous though, but then again, I'd had plenty of practice back at home in Hutchinson. To say I wasn't at least a little nervous my first time is just a lie, but I certainly was better at keeping it below the surface than that pretty little thing in the corner.

I approach him, and he stares at me, pouting his lips, sticking out his chest, trying to win me over, even though he's already won. I'm sure he's going to have quite a reputation, since anyone I take home does (and I seldom take people home, believe it or not). Maybe I'm not as beautiful as this boy or as beautiful as I was back in my glory days, but I still look all right. I look better than most of these other johns anyway, since I'm still skinny (save just the slightest of a beer gut) and have all my hair. If I didn't have wrinkles around my eyes, on my forehead, or at the corners of my mouth, I could pass for at least early-thirties. My hair hasn't grayed out (yet), thank God, and I've become a bit… _antagonistic_ to facial hair.

I take pride in being as much a prize to them as they are to me.

But this boy… this young boy… Now that, _that_ is a prize. Fuck, he's the most beautiful thing I've ever _seen_. He's really trying too hard. He doesn't have to.

I summon him towards me with a smile and a nod, and he slowly detaches himself from the wall. "Hi, nice to meet you," he says, and he's over-annunciating to sound more intelligent. It's adorably ridiculous, especially since I know from experience how johns tend to love a little twang in their boy's voice. They don't want you to be smart. They want you to be charming, handsome, and fuckable… but still, I can't help but silently give him praise. I can't help but praise every gorgeous, thin, sinewy limb, every word that comes out of those soft lips.

I extend my hand to him and shake his hand as if we're committing to some sort of business transaction, and we sort of are. "Hi there," I say. "Would you like to see my apartment?"

"Sure," says the boy, and then he says, "I'm Milo."

I don't know for sure if it's his real name, but I certainly don't care. I lead him out to my piece of shit car and drive him back to my place, mostly in silence.

The weather is awful. It's pouring down rain in buckets, but it's so hot out that it steams on the street, even at night. The boy obviously has lived in New York his whole life. Even after all the years I've lived here, I still haven't gotten used to the smell, but he doesn't even notice it.

By the time we get to the stoop of the apartment, both of us are soaked straight through, and still the rain doesn't give any relief from the heat, and I can't help but feel oddly comfortable in it because it reminds me of the summers back home.

I can't remember the last time I went back…

I make a mental note to try to make it out there sometime soon.

I know I won't go.

The boy shifts awkwardly from foot to foot while we wait for the rickety elevator. He stares up at the numbers as they light up, descending. Finally it screeches and stumbles to a halt on the bottom floor, and the doors slide open with the sound of metal skimming against metal. We step inside.

"So," I say after the doors have shut, "how old are you?"

"Eighteen," he says, without missing a beat.

I smirk. "No, really, how old are you? I'm not a cop. I'm not going to fucking rat you out to the police, I promise."

He bites down on his lower lip with a pair of slightly crooked front teeth. "Fifteen."

I venture to finally touch him, just run the tips of my fingers through his hair. The doors slide open on the eighth floor. "Come with me," I say, and he does.

The door to my apartment, 808, sticks because the heat has made the wood swell, and I have to slam my shoulder against it to get it open. It smells slightly less terrible inside the apartment than it does outside.

"This is where you live?" he asks dumbly, and I know he _must_ be new at this because commenting on a john's apartment or hotel or motel room is kind of dumb. I let him get away with it this time.

"It's not much, but, you know… whatever…" I shrug. Really, it's a shithole, just like all the apartments I've lived in. This one is, at least for the moment, not infested with rats or bugs at least, but the shower water sometimes runs brown, and the heating and air conditioning don't really work most of the time, and the wallpaper is peeling off the walls. The wallpaper is a hideous avocado monstrosity from the seventies anyway.

The kid pauses there, just looking around. Even under the crappy filtered light of my living room, he's still striking. I think that he'll go far in the business.

I take him by the hand and lead him into my room, and I turn on some music to drown out the sounds of traffic and police sirens. The radio is more fizzle than music, but eerily it always seems to soothe me.

The kid swallows, uncomfortable. "So… um…" he says, and I catch a Jersey accent starting to creep through his words. "What do you want me to do? I can…"

I let him trail off while I undress him, starting with the buttons of his obviously cheap button-down. There's a smattering of freckles all over his shoulders; I run my hands over them before I start on his belt. I go slowly, painfully slowly, and I always do. His jeans pool around his ankles, and I lean down and slip off his loafers. They're too big, and I imagine he must have lifted them from a store. He's also not wearing socks underneath them, and there are blisters on his ankles. I glance up at him, and he seems to lose his breath for a moment.

I've still got it.

"Last chance to turn back," I warn him, and he seems terribly confused by this. Most of the boys I bring home do because they believe that once they're in, they're in. There's no such thing as turning back.

I always give them the option just the same. I know from experience that the option far too seldom presents itself.

He says nothing, which is the hustler way of saying _I'm not going anywhere before I get paid_ , so I take off my clothes and press my body flush against his. We tumble onto the bed, and his hands scramble along my back.

We fuck. I fuck him slowly, feeling him out. He whimpers and moans, arching, legs wrapped around my waist, and he is _gorgeous_ like this. He's utterly wrecked, and he's so young and perfect. He's constantly revealing his inexperience too with the sounds he's crying out and the way he's making eye contact. He comes all over himself with a shout.

He can't help but stare when I come without making a single sound. It's not an inexperience thing; most are kind of confused by it. It is pretty weird.

I collapse on the bed next to him, feeling the bliss slide off of me almost as soon as my face hits the pillow.

The boy sits there for a moment, and I can hear him wondering if he should get up and leave. I glance at him through my peripheral vision. "Do you want some coffee or something?" I ask.

"Um… o… okay…" he mumbles.

I force myself up and pad across the room, and I can feel him staring at me, feel him following me into the kitchen.

"Uh… so, uh, that's an interesting tattoo," he says.

I start up the coffee pot and snag a pack of cigarettes and a lighter off the coffee table. "My friend Wendy and her husband own a tattoo place not too far from here," I say. "I work there."

"Oh, that's cool, I guess," he says, and he keeps staring at my back.

I'm actually covered in tattoos nowadays. I have Jesus on my left arm and a bunch of aliens on my right, an infinity symbol over my heart… I have a name tattooed on the inside of my right wrist as well… but the tattoo he's referring to is definitely the one on my back because it's the one everyone always comments on. It's a rather bloody mural of a golden tiger with bright red blood dripping from each razor tooth devouring a kill, dark fur caked in blood and face contorted in agony.

"Do you actually do tattoos then?" he asks, trying not to appear disturbed by it as he sits naked on my couch.

"No," I reply, lighting up a cigarette before continuing, "I clean up. I sweep and mop and sterilize the tools and shit. I keep track of customers and stuff like that."

"Oh."

Maybe he was hoping to glamorize me as some cool artist or something because he sounds surprisingly disappointed. It's not unusual… I tend to disappoint a lot of people.

We stand in silence until the coffee finishes, and I pour each of us a cup. I hand him one, warning him not to spill it on his junk, and stand off to the side, giving him plenty of distance so he doesn't feel threatened. It's something I always do. "So, tell me about yourself a little," I say, sipping at the coffee. It's not very good. It never is. I never learned how not to burn it.

"What's there to tell?" he asks, and I know he's new at this because there's not one hint of defensiveness. He's so wide-eyed and innocent it's almost laughable.

"You ain't been hustling too long," I mention. "When'd you start?"

"Well, uh… last year this guy I knew at school told me about the bar and how guys make lots of money doing that kind of shit… and I couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like, so I dropped out of school a couple of months ago, ran away to New York, and here I am."

I nod. "You make pretty good cash with a face like that, I imagine."

"I guess so."

When he doesn't tell me how much he generally makes, I venture into the woods a little further and say, "My first only got me fifty bucks. That was back when I lived in Hutchinson, though."

"You were a hustler?"

I want to take the honey out of his eyes and put it in my coffee to try to improve the flavor.

"Yeah. I started with guys back in my hometown when I was fifteen. I moved out to New York with Wendy and kept it up at the hustler bar for a while."

"What made you stop?"

I sip at the coffee and stare at the wall, revealing nothing. "Lots of things," I say.

There really weren't _lots_ of things that made me stop, so much as a few really big and important things, but he doesn't have to know that.

We don't really drink much more of the coffee before returning to bed for another round. As I crawl on top of him, he shuts his eyes, and I hover there for a moment before pressing my forehead to his and asking, "So, who was it?"

His eyes open up at half-mast. "Who?"

"Your first time," I say, rubbing circles on his inner thighs with my thumbs.

"Why?" he asks.

Instead of prying, we fuck again. I rock into him as teasingly slow as I did the first time, and he lacks control in the situation, and I feel like I should teach him to take charge, but my brain is too scrambled and heated with arousal to be able to give any real pointers.

Afterwards, we both lie in bed, and I roll a joint and pass it to him. "Why are you so quiet when you come?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say, and it's kind of true. I _do_ know or at least I _did_ ; it's something I locked away in the back of my mind a long time ago, and I can't for the life of me remember where I put the key.

He hums and passes the joint back to me. "So, how about you tell me about you," he says. "You don't have to if you don't want to. I understand that this whole john-hustler thing is supposed to be, strictly speaking, confidential."

"I guess it depends on the person," I say. "I don't give two shits if you know me or not, kid. This whole 'confidentiality' thing came from all those fucks who don't want anyone to know they fuck boys. I don't care what people think. Everyone already knows I fuck boys."

"You're not ashamed of it then?"

"It's the new millennium," I say, laughing, and it hurts my chest a little. "Being a faggot's a lot easier now than it used to be."

"Not if you go to high school," he says, grumbling.

I laugh again, louder this time. "You know, just because you're a fag doesn't mean you shouldn't fight back against the bullies or whatnot. I didn't let anybody beat the shit out of me in high school."

"You were a pretty good fighter then?"

"Nah," I shrugged. "I was an all right fighter, but in all honesty they pretty much left me alone by the time I got to high school. I freaked them out, scared them off."

"How?"

"I told this kid I knew how to hypnotize him… I think that's what I told him… I don't know, that was back in elementary school… but anyway, I just laid him on the ground, rubbed him, and spit in his mouth… I think that's what I did."

The kid is mildly alarmed by the idea that I was doing this back in elementary school, but he's not nearly alarmed enough, confirming my suspicions.

I ask again, "So, who was it?"

He just inhales, holds, and coughs out smoke.

"So, all you had to do was spit in some kid's mouth and they left you alone, huh? Wish I'd known that," he mumbles and checks the clock. He's been checking the clock since we got here, counting up the hours so he can charge me appropriately.

"It probably doesn't work for everyone. Were you good in school?"

"Teachers said I was the top of my class. The only thing I wasn't too good at was History. I was never really good at remembering names and dates and all that."

"So, you just decided being a hustler was better? Just dropped out like that? Don't smart kids like school?"

And there it is. Bitterly, he says, "I'm never going back to that fucking place, and I'm never going home, ever. I don't give a shit if I have to live in my car forever."

We pass the joint back and forth a couple of more times before I say, "So, it was a teacher."

"What?" he asks, jerking his head in my direction.

"Mine was my little league coach," I tell him, and I have a feeling my smile doesn't reach my eyes because it never does anymore, "back when I was eight."

There's a long moment of silence after that. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head. He's wondering if I mean what he thinks I mean. He's wondering if the question I'd asked him is more innocent than he originally assumed because I can't possibly mean what he thinks I mean. He does all of this with a stony face, further proving that I'm right about him.

He rolls onto his side then, and I roll onto my side so that we're staring straight into each other's eyes, and he says, "It wasn't a teacher. Not the first time, anyway."

"Who was it?" I ask quietly.

"My dad… and then he taught my brothers to do it too. He made us do it to each other."

I nod, giving nothing away.

"Mr. Morrison though… That was different. That was special. I never thought of him as some sick bastard like I did my family. He was this beautiful older guy who made me believe everything was going to be okay. He let me stay at his house, and he was always gentle with me. Sometimes, I wouldn't even wake up while he was doing it."

Something bubbles in my gut, and I press my mouth against his so fast that our teeth clack. I'm on top of him when I stop, and he continues, breathlessly, "then… I found him with another boy. I felt so betrayed that I ran away and started living in my car."

I close the separation between us again, body pressing down on him to try to fill up every hole between us, and I wonder for a second if I'm literally trying to suck every last inch of air out of him.

I kiss along his jawline, down his neck, down his chest, down his abdomen, but it isn't until I get to his dick that I realize I'm crying and can't get it to stop.

He doesn't notice, mostly because his eyes are squeezed tightly shut and I'm ridiculously silent through all of it.

I can't ask him anything or I'll give myself away, so I give my mouth something else to do. When he comes I swallow and, instead of crawling back up the mattress, I just lay my head on his thigh for a minute, gasping for air. The tears are still pouring out of me like someone turned on a faucet, and all I say is, "You're an idiot." It's so quiet that he doesn't hear it over his own bliss, and the possibility that it's all in my head is there.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks, voice dreamy and distant, and honestly I forgot he was there for a second. "What's wrong?"

I look up at him, and his eyebrows have come together between a perfect little wrinkle right in the middle.

"Nothing," I say, and I'm pretty sure there _is_ nothing wrong, so I can't understand why the tears just won't stop.

"Well, why are you crying?"

"My eyes are watering. I have allergies," I lie, and it's probably the most pathetic lie I've told all day… possibly the most pathetic lie I've told all week, and I told Wendy that the last hustler I had in my apartment was 'just a friend' and proceeded to not remember his name when she asked.

I get up and half-stumble to the bathroom, tripping over our clothes. I hear the mattress squeak as he gets up too, but I just lean over the sink and stare into the mirror.

In this light, I look so tired and old.

I scratch my head and a couple of stray hairs fall into the sink. While I wipe my nose and eyes with my wrist, I notice one of those hairs lacks the dark luster of the others.

The boy comes up behind me then and lays his chin on my shoulder while his hands rub up and down my shoulder blades. It's a kind gesture, but I can't help but get the feeling that he's just trying to not see the organs being ripped out of that poor kill that's been etched onto my back. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asks.

I can't see how beautiful he is from the reflection in the mirror. I'm too caught up in seeing just how ugly _I_ am. I'm tired and old and _ugly_.

The tears continue, never ceasing.

"How much do I owe you?" I ask, and my voice cracks.

He pauses and looks back into the room, arms snaking around my waist, and he kisses my shoulder. Sobs start wracking through me, but they're silent as always. It's weird how my body convulses around these sobs, like I'm trying to vomit something out that isn't there. I haven't eaten today. I've had nothing but coffee and beer today.

He leads me back to the bed and lays me down and strokes my hair affectionately, more like a mother and less like a whore. It makes me think of my real mother, God rest her soul, who fell off the wagon in her twelve-stepping, drove into a ravine, and died nearly…

Nearly twelve years ago? That can't be right. Has it really been that long?

"You okay?" he asks, petting me and petting me, and he's beautiful. He's beautiful like the angel of death.

"I'm okay," I say, and surely I must be because, again, I can't remember why I'm crying.

He lies on my shoulder, caressing my cheekbone still wet with tears, and I can't take it, so I get up and leave the room and come back with a bottle of whiskey I bought yesterday. The tears don't stop until I've downed at least half the bottle, tilting it back every couple of seconds and chugging at the mouth. It doesn't even burn. I don't feel it at all.

I don't feel anything.

Is that the way it's supposed to be?

"Can I ask you a question?" the boy asks, and I'm already drunk, so all I do is nod. He pauses, pursing his perfect little lips and then says, "Who's Brian? I noticed on your wrist is all…"

"I don't even remember," I say, and I don't. All I have is a hazy picture of him in my head, fuzzy and blurry at all the corners. I locked him away there, in the back of my mind, years ago. All I know is that his name holds some sort of importance to me, and I'm pretty sure I was with him the day everything changed.

Wendy doesn't know about my selective amnesia, Mom's dead, and Eric… Eric's gone now. I have no idea where he is or what he's doing or if he's alive or dead or sick or well or happy or depressed.

All I can remember is that one day a few weeks after the night everything changed, he was gone without even a goodbye note.

Some nights, when I'm lying in bed, I can't help but wonder if it's my fault that he left. I definitely feel like _something_ is my fault, but I can't remember what.

I don't let myself worry about it.

The boy rolls, making a move to get up, and I touch his hand. His skin is still so smooth. "You don't have to go yet," I say quietly. "You can stay here tonight. The weather's so shitty."

He lies back down without saying anything and curls up next to me. His body heat relaxes me, and I kiss his forehead, his nose, his mouth. For a moment I think we might fuck again, but then I drift off to sleep.

In my dreams, I'm abducted by aliens. Brian is there next to me (or at least the fuzzy image of Brian that I remember). He looks at me, frightened and bathed in blue light. I reach out to touch him, but he's just out of my reach. He seems so close, but…

He turns his face back to the blue light above us, and I see a horrible bruise on his neck.

I wake up in a cold sweat, but I don't scream. I never make a sound…

…but I cry until I fall asleep again.

When my eyes crack open, filled with yellow gunk at the corners, I find a migraine working its way into my skull. The sunshine beaming in through the window makes the pain magnify, and I feel that by the afternoon I'll probably have to shut all the curtains and immerse myself in total darkness.

The boy's head is on my shoulder, and my hand has found its way into his hair over the night. I bury my face in it and smell the sweat and dirt and the lingering scent of someone else's cologne. He stirs.

"Good morning," he says, smiling at me, and his smile is so radiant that it blinds me for a second. If my head wasn't pounding, I probably could have appreciated it more. "How are you this morning?"

"I'm fine," I say because I am.

He gets up then, and I watch him almost regrettably as he gets dressed. I want to jump him and fuck him up against the wall, but I refrain. Instead, I pop a handful of aspirin, pull on my boxer shorts, and follow him to the door. "How much do I owe you?" I ask.

He stares at me with those honey colored eyes of his, so perfect and angelic and utterly… _destroyable_. He places a gentle hand on my shoulder… a caring gesture that I know will fade away with time in the business. The light in his eyes will go dark. His smiles won't be bright but instead robotic if existing at all. His skin will get pale and tired. He'll eventually choose the wrong john, and he'll do things to him that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

I'm tempted to propose to the boy right then and there, if only to protect that beautiful innocence that just radiates off of him like a fever… but it's not like I could keep him safe. I'm not anyone.

"Don't worry about it," he answers suddenly, and all that beautifulness and innocence and radiance that I admire so much makes me sick. "Just come back and see me again sometime." He kisses me goodbye.

I hate him so suddenly that I almost collapse under it. He feels sorry for me. The boy who was mistreated by his father and brothers and teacher and now sells his body and lives in his car feels _sorry_ for _me_.

I think the thing that upsets me the most is that I don't understand why. I don't know why he feels sorry for me because he doesn't know anything. He doesn't know my name or my story. I don't even know several chapters of my story anymore. How can he feel sorry for that? As a hustler, he shouldn't feel _anything_.

Then again, as a human, I can't help but wonder if maybe I _should_ feel something…

…but I don't allow myself to dwell on it. I can't.

If I allow myself to remember and to feel again, I'm pretty sure I'll find the courage to pull the trigger on the gun in my dresser. It's got one bullet in it just for me.

After all, death really can't feel much different than this… and being alive feels ten times worse.

But, hey, what do I know? I'm not anyone.


End file.
